We argue but I know
This hell don’t wanna pay his way;
He’s Red-hand Jack’s man OK –
I turn to leave,
He grabs, greasy-palmed,
A shrug – his hand slips from my gaberdine,
Now a push, a shove,
Fingers slip beneath the coat –
Not for the missing roll o’ bills
But a cheap and tarnished gun,
The old revolver fires,
Slug-smoke curls,
Gutted,
I fall blood-hazed – the case pulls free;
Vision dimming, still I see
A woman stop, jaw-dropped –
Who is she?